Abitur
by IamInferior
Summary: And always, we are haunted by the things which we have learned. So let us sing of these friendships forged on lonesome fields. And tarry not, lest we rest forevermore. For steel-eyed Athena is a cruel teacher. And Iapetus, he still hungers.
1. Abitur

Mist swathed the city of Corona, tucking it in as a mother does her child. It had been a night like this one. Little fireflies darted in and out of the fog banks, sparkling exuberantly as they danced through the sky. They called out to each other in that muted night, blinking out their little messages. They were living gems and his own lanterns were but pale imitations. His wife watched from the balcony, her husband silhouetted against the moon, and drank from her cup of wine.

It indeed had been a night like this one. The parchment had been so light and yet so heavy in his hands. And he had sat by the fire for many hours before deeming his reply suitable. He had known the answer, indeed, he had learned the answer long ago. But it was ever so difficult to put the things one knows into words one can can write. Many inkwells were drained and papers wasted before his letter was ready.

And the King drank deeply of the honeydew of memory. As he gazed out into the fog, his vision blurred, and the distant draughts of the past came flooding in. He let himself slip away into nostalgic indulgence.

"You are there to learn lessons."

Those were the words of his father, spoken calmly and without fanfare. There was no point in objecting-his father was gone before he could even compose himself. Only

The next days slipped by in a haze. He was measured. He was studied. He scurried about like a headless chicken. Muddled days turned into muddled weeks. His life was regimented. He was part of a regiment. He got up. He trained. He ate. He slept. So it went.

All the while, he learned nothing. Nothing of worth, anyways. Oh, he learned the proper care of his uniform, the proper way to walk, the proper way to talk, how to swing a blade, how to slay a knave, how to ride a horse, how to shout 'til hoarse, and other petty amusements, but truly nothing of worth.

Until he met him, the brash scoundrel.

**Author Notes:** Hello m8s. I am going to write a serious story about serious things and not silly things.

This time, no skull thrones or absurd tangents. Or juggling heads. Or other crazy things. A serious story about serious things.

LIKE BROMANCE. AND BROJOBS.

okay no brojobs

I will attempt to characterize any historical figures as best as I can using the book learnings learned from all my fancy shmancy books and what-not. Here goes. Historical and artistic liberties, as always, may be taken, and I will not comment on them.

Also, still pickelhaubes, somewhere. Not a plot point this time. Probably. I don't care if it's ahistorical, I fucking love that hat.


	2. The First Lesson: Love

**First Lesson.**

It had been a lesson in love, perhaps, but mostly hatred.

He had swaggered in, collar disheveled and jacket terribly messy. A smirk was plastered on that mockery of a face. His eyes were hollow, and the King, who at the time was no King, but only a young prince, suspected his heart was hollow as well. Thomas's eyes were instantly drawn to that little snot of a man. From the thinness of his shoulders and the weakness of his mustache, barely a strip of hair, if even that, Thomas could tell that he was barely even a man.

The man's eyebrows tilted incredulously, and he chuckled. "What, so you're a lieutenant?" asked that man. Thomas resisted the urge to punch his face. The man just laughed and walked away. Thomas stood there. That had been his first meeting. He tracked down his captain and asked him who that man was.

The captain shrugged and told Thomas that it was his cousin. A name was given to that face. Agdar. It was a loathsome and ugly name. It was a loathsome and ugly person too. He'd been a lieutenant too, but they'd stripped him of his rank. Resolved to give him a corporalhood as compensation, just to avoid sending him home. Nepotism at work. A loathsome and ugly name. Thomas spit at it. It was rock-like, blunt, without any sort of grace. The two syllables simply thudded out. It was not a name suitable for nobility of any kind, let alone a prince, one nominally equal to him in stature. Thomas resolved to always call the man either "you there" or "Corporal". Better to speak no name than a dreadful one like that.

They had marched six miles that day and the valley was now in sight. Across it, he saw little tents and men scurrying about. Strange songs were being sung by strange tongues, and the music wove its way through the grass, the long blades covered in cheeky dewdrops. The oranges and reds of the setting sun cut through the balding gray mountains, demanding respect for the colors. They set up camp by a babbling brook, and Thomas sat by the river and collected his thoughts. He pulled up the legs of his trousers and sat down by the stream, letting his feet soak in the cool water. Thomas plucked a dandelion and blew off the seeds. All but one were caught by a gentle breeze and floated away. The remaining one fluttered a bit then plunged into the water. It bobbed back up to the surface and then bumped into a few rocks before finally slipping out of sight. That night, he ate sausages and stale biscuits. He dreamed of home.

He awoke to a large, hairy hand dragging him out of bed. It was followed immediately by a blob of spittle, rich in mucus, splattering into his face. He groaned and wiped it off.

"Come on, I know you're used to sleeping in because you're a pampered fuck, but you're not a little bitch boy anymore, are you? Get up or you're getting the whip," said the sergeant. Thomas complied, stumbling a bit as he shook the thin blanket off. He felt his back ache and groaned again. Was there anything worse than sleeping on the ground?

They formed into a line. Across the valley, the enemy did too. For several minutes, they stared each other down from opposite sides of the field. A few birds sang happy songs.

"Hey Karl, don't you call your whore 'Songbird'? There's a songbird right there! Why don't you give that a good shagging?" jeered a soldier. He began to laugh raucously.

"Unlike you, I don't fuck animals," replied Private Karl.

"Oh, o'course not! Every time you try, they run away, don't they?" said the soldier, and he laughed again.

"I hear Spanish bitches are like dead fish. Too lazy to even fuck right."

"Must be why they raped all the natives, eh?"

"Nah, you folks got it all wrong. It's not the ladies, it's their men. Hot-blooded but limp-dicked, eh? One taste of my Polish sausage," said one soldier, grabbing his crotch, "and they'll be set right."

A cannonball whizzed overhead, and Thomas flinched. Another soon followed, and another, and another. The battery on the Spanish side was thundering up a storm. Cannonballs hurtled through the sky, screeching and screaming as they tore open clouds. One bird was hit by a shot and popped, causing bones, feathers, and guts to rain down. Vultures began to circle the valley. A man bent over only for a cannonball to rip over him, tearing the flesh of his back off and exposing his spine to the open air. He wailed in agony and toppled over. The shots kept coming.

Thomas looked around and located the captain. He screamed, "Good lord man, can't you get the counter-battery going?" The captain looked back and shrugged.

"Lovely weather, isn't it? Cloudy with a chance of grapeshot?" said the captain. Thomas pointed frantically at their own cannons. They were sitting on the right flank and the gunners were idle. Some were playing a card game.

"Didn't know you were a gambling man, Tommy!" said the captain.

Thomas took another breath and shouted, "Can't you get them to move?"

"Why on earth would I do that? I'm having a wonderful time," said the captain, and he began to hum a bawdy tavern song.

Another cannonball came down, sending dirt and rocks flying everywhere. A man was covered in dust and began to cough before another shot came down, going right through him. A piece of viscera landed on Thomas's coat, sticking itself by a button. A few drops of blood hit his face. He licked his lips. They tasted of copper. Artillery fire continued raining down. Time dragged on.

Thomas noticed he was grinding his teeth raw. After an eternity, the enemy cannons stopped. The troops on the Coronan right flank began to advance. A minute late, another battalion began its advance. Movement was soon occurring along the whole line, creeping its way to Thomas's battalion on the left flank. As more battalions moved forward, their artillery began its attack.

The captain nodded. The sergeant grinned and licked his finger. He held it up in the air for a few moments, then took off his tricorne and admired its silver lacing. He put it back up and pushed it back a bit. He lifted his half-pike high in the air and began to march forward. The captain drew his sword and pointed it towards the enemy.

"MARCH!"

Thomas found it hard to move, and only after some mental exertion could he muster the strength to lift his foot. The sound of footsteps was drowned out by the mad cacophony of drums. Again and again, he lifted one foot, dropped it, and lifted the other. Eventually the rhythm caught him and Thomas began to march in earnest. He caught a glance at Agdar, and noted that his lip was quivering. Halfway across the field, the enemy artillery began to fire again, and the head of one of his comrades was immediately torn off. Mud flew upwards again and again, as artillery churned the earth and mixed blood with soil.

"FIRE AND ADVANCE!" came the call. It soon echoed up and down the line. "ADVANCING FIRE!" "FIRE AND MOVE!" "MAAARCHING FIRE!" "ADVANCE BOYS, KEEP FIRING!" "KEEP THEIR BLOODY HEADS DOWN!"

Thomas fired once, nearly dislocated his shoulder, and yelped. He tried to reload but was utterly stymied by his gun. To his horror, he noticed strange grooves along the inside of his barrel. He hurriedly picked up his weapon and dashed forward as everyone else finished reloading and continued the march, some nearly stumbling over him. They fired again and Thomas made a "pew pew" noise with his mouth. The captain walked over and grabbed his gun.

"Don't hurt yourself. Here, use this," said the captain, and he drew Thomas's sword. It was long and silvery, and to Thomas, it almost looked ready to bite. He took it and held it gingerly.

"What is this? What do I do?" asked Thomas.

"It's a broadsword, idiot. They call it that because of all the broads you'll get when you're done. Now keep marching."

The enemy cannons continued to rain down fire on them, the noise drowning out the world again and again. Soon Thomas's ears were ringing. A horseman rode over to Thomas and began to gesture at the captain. The captain gestured back. The horseman began to shout, but Thomas could not hear the man's words. The captain shrugged. The horseman gave the captain the finger. The light of realization appeared in the captain's eyes, and he turned around. The Spanish were assembling their strength on the right flank to meet the advance of the first unit of the echelon. Thomas stared as the captain's mouth formed the words "Double march". Everyone but Thomas immediately sped up, and Thomas was almost trampled before he scrabbled his way forward. The enemy lines drew closer and closer. Another order must have been given, as the other soldiers began to attach bayonets to their muskets. The men wearing mitres all drew sabers. Thomas's knees shook as he brought his sword to a ready position.

The sergeant broke into a sprint, holding his half-pike above his head. He pounced on a Spaniard and cleaved his skull in two with his pole-arm. Bits of brain slid off the spontoon, the weapon now glistening with blood. Soon, the others were upon them, swinging and thrusting wildly. The enemy was running now, and he saw other units breaking and fleeing the battle as well. When he turned back, he found himself face-to-face with a Spaniard.

The Spaniard was pulling his gun's bayonet from the eye of a man. They made eye contact and the Spaniard tried to raise his gun, but Thomas was faster. He pointed his blade at the man's heart. The Spaniard began to babble in his Spanish tongue. He shook his head frantically. Thomas began to pant and shudder but kept the sword pointing forward. Tears began to stream down the man's face as he continued to speak in his strange language. Thomas stared at him, afraid to move. Afraid to disturb the balance they had carved out. The Spaniard wailed. Thomas took a step back.

Then the tip of a sword came through the Spaniard's heart. He gasped, grabbed in his chest, then fell over. Behind him was Agdar, breathing heavily. Agdar dropped the sword and began to stare at his hands. Thomas stared at Agdar's hands too.

They were still staring by the time the horseman rode over. It was Thomas's uncle.

"How are my boys doing? Thomas, you holding up?" asked the horseman. He sized up Thomas. "Yeah, you're doing fine. What about you? Hrmm. Hell, Squirt, you're looking like a real man now. Not like the little bookworm I saw six years ago. Keep at it, it'll come to you. It's in the blood, after all."

Thomas noticed he had cut his own hand and grimaced. The blood dripped down and mixed with that of dead Spaniard and Coronan alike.

That night, Agdar set his mat down by Thomas's. They stayed there, side by side, staring up at the stars. The air still reeked of gunpowder and burnt flesh, and the valley was alive with screaming.

Agdar broke the silence.

"I used to study Norse mythology," said Agdar.

"What?" asked Thomas.

"Norse mythology. It's why he called me bookworm. Your uncle."

Then they lapsed back into silence.

That had been the first lesson.

Thomas looked out again over the Baltic Sea. His wife put her hand on his shoulder. Yes, it had been a night like this when he received the letter. Agdar, the man who had saved his life. Agdar, whose chest brimmed with medals and well-deserved honors. Agdar, the scholar who became a warrior, who feared nothing. Agdar, a man with an untainted heart. The man who had found perfect happiness in his beautiful wife and two infant daughters.

The letter had started very simply.

"Dearest Thomas, or King Frederick William, or whatever nonsense you wish to call yourself now:

I am afraid."


End file.
